Five-Seater
by Lori von Loco
Summary: In which secret romances aren't exactly secrets and Mycroft regrets not bringing a bigger car.


**Five-Seater**

**A/N: **This is stupid and came to me at an ungodly hour of the morning—just as I was getting to sleep, too. But it needed to be done or I'd regret it later. I never seem to write anything Sherlock-related that includes any other characters besides John and Sherlock, so here's my first tribute to Lestrade and Mycroft! And it's _still _Johnlock, lol. But also Mystrade, so that's a nice change of pace.

-x-

"Mycroft, for the last time, I am not associating myself with the people in your vague profession—if you can even call it that—and I most certainly will _not _be getting into your car."

Sherlock leveled an icy glare at the man in question, who sat comfortably in the back seat of his car with one chipper-looking Gregory Lestrade at his side, a deathly silent Anthea in the passenger seat, and a begrudging John in the last remaining spot.

"I foresaw your reaction to this rather…_hurried _situation, but I'm afraid there's just no avoiding it. _Unfortunately_," Mycroft drew the word out in a manner that expressed the annoyance Sherlock felt, "I require your assistance. I can assure you it's a simple task, and you ought to be done in a matter of hours."

"Of course it's simple—it's bloody boring is what it is."

Before Mycroft could form a response, John snapped at the detective who was currently looming outside the open door on his side of the vehicle. "Sherlock, just get in the damn car. I don't like this any more than you do. In fact, I may like it less. So shut up and get in, _please_, for the love of God."

Sherlock blinked once, unfazed. "John, there aren't even any more seats," he pointed out airily, as if this fact was a remarkable discovery.

"You can always sit in your dear brother's lap," Mycroft said with one of his rare smiles creeping into his tone. Greg burst into a fit of laughter at the detective's resulting expression.

"Humor doesn't suit you, Mycroft," the latter muttered.

"And arrogance doesn't suit you, yet I don't hold out hope you'll one day forgo it."

"So, where do you propose I sit, hm?" His shrug was almost violent in nature and managed to be both inquiring and condescending.

Greg snickered again. "Well you sure as hell aren't sitting in _my _lap."

From the passenger seat, Anthea piped up. "Don't even ask."

Sherlock's frown was tight, wrought with frustration and displeasure. It was evident from the stare he settled on John, however, that he'd given in. "John?"

"My leg, Sherlock."

"It's psy—"

"Yes, yes, psychosomatic. You know, I don't even care anymore. Just sit down now, before I change my mind and we shove you in the trunk."

"I'm all in favor of that option," Greg chipped in, earning another glare from Sherlock before the latter awkwardly ducked into the vehicle and situated himself on the doctor's lap.

Sherlock was instantly complaining. "I'm not a bloody _toddler_, for goodness sake. This is ridiculous." He was ignored.

"Seatbelts, everyone," Mycroft said, voice lilting in blatant self-satisfaction. "I do apologize for the snug fit."

"It wouldn't be a 'snug fit'if you didn't insist on towing the object of your affections along with us." The younger Holmes nearly hissed this at his brother, gesturing very unsubtly to the detective inspector to his and John's right.

Mycroft and Greg bristled, but the former's response still arrived in a timely manner, as cool and collected as ever. "I'm sure I needn't remind you that you're the one occupying the lap of a very handsome blond." The last three words were pronounced with heavy emphasis in retaliation to Sherlock's taunts.

It was John's turn to speak now, and he put in a defensive, "This is purely professional!"

"There's nothing professional about this," Sherlock returned in his best "John-you're-an-imbecile" voice.

The blond regarded him with furrowed eyebrows and an indignant cry of, "Sherlock!"

At once, the detective added (in a slightly louder voice), "There's nothing romantic about it, either. It's merely a result of our unfortunate circumstance, _Mycroft._"

"Right, yes," Greg said, amusement fading quickly into impatience. "And there's nothing romantic about you two snogging at crime scenes when you think no one is looking."

This was met with an awkward silence, and the longer the silence continued without any progress in their driving, the more palpable the tension seemed. It was finally broken by John, who mumbled in his most casual tone, "Not quite as romantic as you and Mycroft shagging in your office when you think we're busy snogging at the crime scene."

Sherlock couldn't contain his answering bark of laughter just as Anthea couldn't resist turning around to shoot her employer an intrigued raise of her brows.

For the first time in his life, John saw Mycroft's face redden. Greg was spluttering beside him, and that was about the time the elder Holmes brother called off the entire plan. "As a matter of fact, I believe I can handle this by myself, Sherlock. Requesting your assistance was obviously a mistake."

"Obviously," Sherlock agreed.

"Go on, then. Out with the lot of you."

Another lengthy pause filled the car, and suddenly Sherlock was covering his eyes with one hand and John was redder than Mycroft. "Actually, um, why don't we drive around for a tick?" At this, Mycroft and Greg cocked their eyebrows in unison; the former inquired about the doctor's request, to which he responded with a weak, "It's…nice out."

The third and final pause was the shortest, but possibly the most painful, as Greg realized the problem in an instant and his resulting groan tipped Mycroft off. "Well, brother…I'm sure a trip around the block would be fruitful for you and your lover, but I have to insist we refrain from such an activity for the sake of expensive leather seating."

Sherlock craned his neck to affix John with an accusing stare, but the doctor refused to meet his gaze. Instead, he cleared his throat loudly and pressed his hands insistently on the detective's back. "Well, go on, get up."

"As I see you've had no trouble doing, Doctor Watson," Greg murmured under his breath, coupling this with a pleased smirk when Mycroft chuckled.

Sherlock was out of the car in less than two seconds with the threat of more lewd allusions being his incentive, and John followed closely, calling after the other with a defensive, "It isn't _my_ fault you bounce a lot when you're uncomfortable!"

Greg didn't relax his stiff posture until their voices had faded into nothing, at which point his companion was so flustered he almost didn't want to touch him. Almost.

Smiling crookedly, the DI reached over to squeeze the brunette's thigh. "Guess that means we're down one spot for shagging."

"Oh, I wouldn't say that," was the other's surprisingly crisp answer. He turned his head from the window to offer Greg an almost imperceptible smile. "It's a fun game, tormenting my younger brother. Next time we ought to leave the door open."

Greg's own laugh surprised him and he snorted once in the process of recovering. "I never thought I'd hear that from you, of all people."

"I'm full of surprises."

"Maybe you could show—"

"Okay, no, stop," Anthea interjected sharply, shoving her wad of bubblegum aside with her tongue to effectively convey her discontent with the direction their conversation was quickly veering into. "Not here. _Please_, not here."

Greg cleared his throat. "Right, of course. Sorry, ma'am."

"Another time, then." Mycroft hummed.

The detective inspector assented with a short bob of a nod, then climbed out of the vehicle in lazy pursuit of two very compromised men that he'd regrettably have to see at work the following day.


End file.
